by Tony Hayden
Covering her eyes with her right arm, she cried out, “Oh my God, please help me.”
Sara sat for several seconds with her eyes closed, tears washing paths through the dirt on her cheeks. For the first time since she woke under that dirty mattress down the mountain, the realization of her grave situation flooded her senses. Sara leaned against the wall, brought her knees to her chest and screamed.
sixteen
Mike leaned against the trunk of his Ford Taurus and rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Jean had called, asking for final directions to the bed and breakfast, so he decided to wait for her outside. Jean had sounded tired; almost drained of hope.
He let his mind wander back to the days when he and Jean’s love for each other had seemed monumental. His heart struggled a bit and skipped a beat at the memory of their early passion and longing to be in each others’ arms. Jean was a beautiful woman, with a gentle touch and a soul as limitless as the universe itself. A dull ache settled into his stomach as he recalled the severe depression that sucked the life from his wife after the birth of their daughter. No amount of therapy or medication seemed to help, and Mike was left to raise Sara alone.
As time passed, Jean worked through her depression and was finally able to accept her role as nurturing mother, but an unbreakable bond between Mike and his daughter had been forged from the raw materials of messy diapers, late-night feedings, and endless tears from cutting teeth.
Jean was a wonderful mother to Sara, but the dynamics of their late blooming relationship gave birth to an underlying competition for Mike’s attention. Mike had even recognized a struggle between he and Jean for Sara’s affection. His wife had been absent from an important bonding period that every young family experiences and she had spent the past eighteen years in quiet resentment of Mike and Sara’s close relationship.
The sound of an approaching car pulled Mike from his thoughts and he looked up to see his wife of twenty years, pull into the driveway and park directly behind his Taurus. Jean’s face revealed her exhaustion and sorrow; her eyes searched Mike’s for any sign of news or hope. Finding none, she looked away and busied herself with something in the passenger’s seat. Mike walked slowly to her door and tapped on the window. A motor softly whirred and the glass disappeared as Jean gathered items to hand to her husband through the open window. Mike leaned over and ran his fingers through Jean’s hair.
“How are you holding up, sweetheart?” he asked in a soft voice.
Jean tensed her shoulders at his touch and harshly handed an overnight bag through the window.
“I don’t know, Mike,” she said. “How am I supposed to be holding up?”
Jean gathered up a gun belt and a box of ammunition and passed them through the opening. “My daughter is missing and no one is doing a damn thing to find her.”
Mike sat the items on a garden bench behind him then squatted to better see inside the car.
Finally catching Jean’s eye, he asked, “Would you like to go with me to get a cup of coffee? I can fill you in on what I have done so far, and we can come up with a plan on what to do next.”
Jean exhaled loudly, “I already have a plan, Mike.” Retrieving a small notebook from the dashboard, she flipped it open.
“I have an appointment with the Dean of Students at the University of Wyoming in two hours. Then, I am going to meet with the editor of the student paper to run a special edition on Sara, and after that, I am going to meet with the Chief of Police in Laramie to find out what he is doing to find my daughter.”
Jean looked at Mike with disdain. “I don’t have time to sit on my ass and drink coffee with you.”
Mike bowed his head and swallowed hard.
“Okay,” he said. “You might ask the Chief of campus police to sit in on your meeting with the Dean. He would be aware of any predators that frequent the campus.”
Jean began crying, “Is that what you think happened, Mike?” She wiped tears from her cheeks. “Do you think Sara was taken by some predator? You don’t think she is out exercising her independence?” Jean’s voice grew louder, ”Sowing her oats? Having a night on the town?”
Jean shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, then demanded, “You tell me, Mike, because you obviously know our daughter much better than I do.”
Mike looked up into his wife’s troubled eyes.
“Something is wrong, Jean. Sara would never do this to us, or herself. Her purse and her cell phone were left on the front seat of her car. We haven’t heard from her since she left our home. Everything points to an abduction.”
Jean asked incredulously, “And what are you doing about it, Deputy Haller?” She waved toward the Inn. “I mean, besides drinking coffee and sleeping in a comfortable bed?”
Mike let go of the car and stood. His posture revealed the defeat he felt.
“I have filed a missing person’s report with the sheriff’s department,” he said. “I think the driver of the tow truck might be involved somehow. I’m not sure why, but I have a hunch that he might know where Sara is. I’m going to talk to the sheriff some more today; see if he has recovered any evidence from the Honda.”
Jean tossed the small notebook back onto the dashboard and put the car in reverse.
“Well, Deputy, you stay here and drink your coffee, and talk to the sheriff, and follow your hunches. I’m going to go find my daughter.”
Mike watched Jean back from the driveway, then speed away toward town. The sound of her accelerating car faded quickly into the distance, leaving Mike alone and uncertain.
After shaving and changing into clean clothes, Mike loaded his Ruger KP345 and chambered a round before engaging the safety and sliding it snuggly into an Insider holster, concealed on his right hip. The handgun felt secure and gave Mike a sense of being in control again. His permit to carry the concealed weapon was tucked away in his wallet, just in case anyone thought to object.
Mike’s cell phone vibrated quietly on the coffee table and he was surprised to see that his boss, Sheriff Casey, was calling.
“Hello,” was the only greeting he could muster.
The sheriff’s gravelly voice greeted him.
“Mike? Ben Casey. How are you holding up, son?”
Mike sat on the edge of the bed.
“As well as could be expected I guess. What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
Sheriff Casey didn’t waste time.
“You can fill me in on what progress has been made in finding your daughter, for starters.”
Mike sighed before beginning, “I have filed a missing person’s report with the Red Feather County Sheriff’s Office. Jean is meeting with the police in Laramie, Wyoming, this afternoon. Neither one of us has heard anything from Sara.”
Sheriff Casey grunted, “Have you gotten a look at her car? Anything seem suspicious?”
Mike sat a little straighter, “I was able to look at her car yesterday. It was sitting in the impound lot near the edge of town. The right, front tire was flat and all of Sara’s belongings were still in it. Her cell phone and purse were on the front seat. There didn’t seem to be any signs of a struggle.”
The sheriff grunted again, “You say that her purse and cell phone were on the front seat?”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t touch anything. I wanted to, but I knew enough not to.”
“Good man,” the sheriff said. “It could turn out to be valuable evidence.” Ben Casey paused for a moment before continuing, “Mike, it’s obvious to me that your daughter has been abducted. The sooner we accept that, the more likely we are to get her back alive. Do you have confidence in Sheriff Barnes’ abilities?”
Mike hesitated, “Well…sir, I…”
“What is it, Mike?”
Mike chewed the inside of his lip before speaking.
“The young man who towed Sara’s Honda is the sheriff’s stepson. He says that the car was abandoned when he arrived to tow it, but I’m not sure I trust his word.”
“Hmmm,” Ben Casey said. “That def
initely makes things a little tricky. Has Sheriff Barnes questioned the boy?”
“Yes, sir,” Mike answered. “The sheriff has ruled him out as a suspect.”
Mike decided not to include details of the stolen iPod. The information seemed inconsequential.
Sheriff Casey sucked at his teeth for a moment to let Mike know he was thinking.
“I’ll tell you what,” he finally said, “If you find evidence that the sheriff’s stepson was involved somehow, let me know immediately and I’ll contact the State Attorney General’s office for advice.”
Mike scoffed quietly, “I’m not sure what evidence I’ll be able to turn up. I’m becoming persona non grata rather quickly down here. The sheriff is not likely to ask for my help.”
Casey grunted again, “Mike, you are going about this the wrong way. How many deputies does Sheriff Barnes have? Twelve?”
Before Mike could concur, his boss continued, “No, I would say that there are enough law enforcement officers in that county. What Sara needs right now, Mike, is a father. A pissed-off father who is willing to do whatever it takes to get his daughter back. Do you understand what I am telling you, Mike?”
Mike raised his head. It was as if he had just stirred from a fitful sleep.
Sheriff Casey continued, “I am placing you on an immediate leave of absence, Mike. As of now, you are relieved of your duties so you can concentrate on finding Sara. Am I making myself clear?”
Mike stumbled a bit before answering, “Yes, sir,” he said. “Crystal clear.”
“Good!” Ben Casey boomed. “Now, keep me up to date. I’ll start pushing from this end to light a fire under the asses of the Red Feather County Sheriff’s Department.”
Mike exhaled loudly, “Thank you, Sheriff Casey.”
Before he could say more, the other end of the line disconnected.
Mike sat quietly for a moment. The vast weight of the law and all its legislated restrictions had just been lifted from his shoulders. He was surprised that the first emotion to pass through him was anger. An image of Jordan Barnes walking from the county building with a smile on his face, made him stand and put his right hand on the butt of his .45.
Mike breathed in deeply, then exhaled loudly.
“Time to pay Jordan a visit.”
seventeen
The trailer house sat back off a dusty road, deep in a sage carpeted arroyo. Hidden among several abandoned vehicles and a scattering of sickly Russian Olives, the aluminum sided mobile home appeared desolate and abandoned. If not for the black Ford tow truck parked among the debris, any passerby might well mistake the location for some farmer’s personal dump.
Jordan Barnes relaxed inside the trailer on a thread-bare sofa, his feet propped lazily on a ten dollar coffee table covered in hotrod magazines and the remnants of a hastily prepared lunch. A cardboard box sat next to him, the top cut away for easy access to three small kittens, snuggled deeply into the folds of a woolen army blanket. The blanket began to move and a tiny voice, sounding much like the rusty hinge of a cupboard door, called helplessly for nourishment.
Jordan lifted the kitten from the box and softly stroked the fur on its neck.
“Hey, little fella,” he cooed. “Are you hungry again already?”
The kitten’s mouth opened again and again in an inaudible cry for its mother. Jordan had collected the three kittens from a desolate corner of the impound lot after noticing their mother had been killed by a passing car. Now, a small nursery had been carefully constructed from a second-hand playpen, a hotplate, and several miniature plastic baby bottles.
Jordan removed a bottle from a pan of steaming water, shook it, then tested the mixture of soy milk and plain yogurt against his exposed wrist.
“This should feel good on your tummy,” he said quietly.
The kitten took the nipple and quickly made a mess of its noontime meal.
“Are you going to save some of that for your sisters?” he asked playfully.
Almost on cue, the kitten answered with a contented squeak.
Jordan placed the helpless bundle back into the box, then repeated the effort twice more.
“I have to go to work now, shitheads. Do you think you can manage this afternoon without me?”
Jordan pulled each kitten from the box, rubbed his nose against theirs, and deposited them carefully into the playpen.
“I’ll be home at dinner to feed you again, don’t worry,” he said before grabbing his keys and walking out the door to finish another day of towing cars.
Mike sat on a bluff across the county road from Jordan’s trailer and waited patiently for any movement below. After finding a listing for the tow truck driver in a local phone book, Mike drove six miles west of Ranch Springs and was surprised to find Jordan at home. He found a hiding spot for his Taurus behind a windmill, used to draw water from a well for livestock, and walked a half mile to the spot he was observing from now.
Jordan’s place was a dump. Mike had lots of experience with recluses who lived in the middle of nowhere in homes that would be deemed uninhabitable by most civilized people. They tended to be outcasts, drunks, vagrants, or cowards with deep secrets. Mike suspected the latter in this case.
Mike Haller was wrestling with himself internally. It would be so easy to walk down to the trailer, knock quietly on the front door, then callously beat the hell out of the turd inside to extract a confession. His gut told him that Jordan was the one responsible for Sara’s disappearance. But, other than that, and some shaky circumstantial evidence, Mike had nothing.
He had experienced the horrific consequence of people rushing to judgment. His first year as a deputy sheriff in Eagle County, he was called to a scene where a man had brutally murdered his neighbor with an axe handle. The man’s four-year-old son had turned up missing only hours earlier and because of an informational flyer, stating that the neighbor had been convicted eighteen years earlier of sexual assault, the father concluded that his neighbor had abducted his little boy. The neighbor was murdered, the four-year-old boy turned up happy and healthy a few hours later at the city park down the street, and the father went to prison for the rest of his life.
Mike watched the trailer for any signs of movement. He finally settled on a plan to search Jordan’s house and property after the young man returned to work. If he could find one piece of evidence linking Jordan to his daughter’s disappearance, then he would feel more confident in his next course of action. Whatever that might be, Mike was certain it would not involve Sheriff Barnes.
The door to the mobile home opened and Jordan stepped out onto a set of rickety wooden stairs that descended to a patch of trampled weeds. Mike watched him stretch, then toss an empty soup can toward a pile of refuse under a Russian Olive tree. The young man quickly tucked the tail of a denim shirt into his pants, then climbed into his truck and left. Black smoke from the diesel engine remained behind well after all sounds of the truck had disappeared. Mike waited on the bluff a full ten minutes before finally making his way down to the trailer.
The door was locked, but pried easily with a pocket knife. Mike peered into the darkness and scowled at the bitter odor of filthy living. Dishes and food wrappers competed for space on a pass-over bar between the kitchen and living room, obscuring a row of cupboards with greasy doors long devoid of varnish or stain. Windows were covered in bed sheets, filtering sunlight to the color of dark urine. Mike swallowed hard, stepped in, and closed the door behind him.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, Mike’s attention was drawn to a cluttered living room. The walls were bare. No photos or calendars or prints were present to hide the discolored wood paneling. In one corner, a Sweetheart Vine sat brown and parched, well past any hope of reanimation. A nineteen inch television rested on a small table, built from cinder blocks and a square of ¾ inch plywood. The television was left on, volume muted. Snowy figures moved across the screen in some rerun of a Jerry Springer episode.
Movement brought Mike’s eyes to a small
portable playpen against one wall. Three small kittens were tumbling and pouncing at each other in a show of feral behavior fit for Saber Tooth tigers. Mike wrinkled his brow, then took note of the baby bottles, warming plate, and a soft-cover manual, instructing on the “Care of Kittens”.
A breeze picked up outside, causing Olive trees to rustle and the house to creek. Mike shook off the distraction of the playful kittens and moved down a narrow hallway toward the back of the trailer. The palm of his hand rested tensely on the butt of his .45 while he pushed open the door to the first bedroom on the right. The room was illuminated by a small window, covered in clear plastic to compensate for a broken pane of glass. On the filthy carpet, an automobile transmission sat elevated on more cinder blocks; parts and tools scattered across the floor to resemble a greasy jigsaw puzzle.
Mike closed the door and continued down the hall to a tiny bathroom. The sink was dirty; a bar of grimy Lava soap sat perched on the edge of a chromed soapdish. The mirror was spattered with drops of toothpaste, and the toilet posed, lid open, with a ring of mildew just above the water line. Mike pulled aside a vinyl curtain and searched the shower for any signs of blood that may have been washed away to cover up a crime. There was none.
He moved on to the bedroom at the back of the trailer. A twin mattress lay on the floor, covered by a heavy Coleman sleeping bag and a crumpled feather pillow in a dirty white linen case. Mike crossed the room to a dresser drawer and quickly searched for anything interesting. Unfolded clothes were stuffed into each drawer with little organization. A well worn copy of Hustler magazine was discovered under an assortment of cotton socks. Mike closed the drawer and looked around the room. Work boots and coveralls littered the floor and a dusty acoustic guitar sat leaning in one corner.
